British Don't Drink Cold Tea, Do They?
by Aliada
Summary: Sherlock doesn't want to drink his cold tea. Will John be of assistance?


John didn't notice anything at first. Everything was pretty much mundane – if living with Sherlock could be called so.

Sherlock was bored, annoyed, and on the verge of something disastrous.

John was telling him off and making sure he had his tea. Tea was vitally important.

"What do you call it then?" Sherlock's voice was heavy. "I-Want-to-Show-off" kind of heavy.

It was all it took. One burning sound. One look of irritation. Something that begged for response.

John stood straighter. So they were heading this way. Okay.

"I think it's called _worry_. Don't you?"

Sherlock bounced on the sofa, and John felt that headache was definitely coming. Soon.

He cleared his throat.

Sherlock bounced again and faced him.

" _Worry_ , as far as I know, is a milder synonym for overreacting, or even hysteria. I would probably refrain from experiencing it, or having it inflicted on me for that matter."

John chuckled.

 _Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?_

So much for having no resemblance.

Sherlock stopped his mumbling.

"Mycroft."

John's chuckles turned into joyful laughter.

Sherlock tried to scowl at him, but something made him smile instead. Maybe it was this tea problem. _Happy John_ was much more likely to provide him with unlimited cups than _Grumpy John_.

Sherlock had a lot of Johns in his collection, but the happy one was the most satisfying.

Sherlock touched his forehead briefly hoping that thumping in his head would go away.

There was something he should have thought about. Something to do with…

John stopped those ridiculous sounds and looked at him with a hint of concern. _Concerned John_ wasn't so bad either, Sherlock had to admit.

"Are you all right?"

Oh, yes. Mycroft. He had to ask about Mycroft since John was acting quite suspicious. Why mention Mycroft? Did not he know that this only added to his headache? _Mean John_ wasn't the best one, that's for sure.

"Aren't you going to ask about…"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John shook his head with a tired yawn.

"Never mind. It's just a stress thing, guess. I need to rest."

Sherlock opened his mouth once again.

"It's just so funny. I've never noticed much similarity between you two, and now you say those words – it was _so_ him."

John muffled another yawn and chuckled.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide.

"I'm _not_ him!"

"Of course, not."

John's smile was lenient now.

Sherlock scowled at him and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the headache was still there. And so was happy John. The second fact has almost made him forget about the first. His prioritizing system definitely needed re-considering.

"Okay, Sherlock. I think I'll have a lay down for a few hours. Think you can manage… whatever you're doing without me."

Sherlock blinked at him.

"But who will be making me tea?"

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"You don't drink it."

Sherlock looked down at the cup in front of him. The full cup of cold tea.

Suddenly, he felt very miserable. It must have been this impossible headache that made his thoughts slow and _odd_.

John gave a "duh" sound.

Sherlock didn't like this one. Misery was dumb.

He curled up on the sofa and faced the wall.

"Go to sleep, John. At least we won't be having this _boring_ conversation anymore."

There was something wrong with his voice today. Well, it wasn't so surprising considering John's tendency to give him cold tea. Weren't they British? Offensive.

Hand on his shoulder made him flinch a bit. _John._

"Are you all right, Sherlock?"

The hand moved. Shoulder. Neck. Forehead.

"You're burning! Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock didn't want to be scolded. But as long as John was here – it was fine.

"It was _cold_ , John."

"What was?..."

John's voice broke, and he made a quiet "hmm" sound. Sherlock tried to analyze it, but his head was spinning too much. Nauseating, exhausting spin, which pushed him _somewhere_ down. He tried to think about it but his mind dissolved into the fall. Sherlock couldn't find the pieces. He wasn't even sure they existed at all.

The one thing he was sure about was the coldness on his hurting forehead. And it was much nicer than the cold tea. Sherlock wanted to tell John about it, but the words got stuck.

He heard a faint sound of something unzipping, and then the hand was on his forehead once again, soothing and relaxing.

"Come on, take those."

John handed him a couple of pills and a glass of water. Sherlock frowned at him.

"I'm not sick."

"You are most certainly are. Now, stop arguing and take them."

Sherlock's frown intensified.

"Boring!"

John glared at him.

"Maybe it's now. But it won't be when you're diagnosed with pneumonia."

Sherlock pushed John's hand away, making water spill.

"I need to think, John!"

"About _what_? 101 ways to drive your flatmate mad? I think you've pretty much covered this one."

John felt like he was going to explode. Trying to help and getting your bloody water nearly spilled all over your face! It didn't actually get there – only on his hands, but still.

The answer came from under the pillow.

"Sorry?"

"You said you were… worrying about me. I was thinking about that."

"Oh,"

Sherlock thought he was getting better at reading John's interjections, but now he wasn't so sure.

This "oh" could mean "hmm", or it could be the combination of both, not to mention that each one had different types and grades of meanings. Linguists would say that interjections don't have full semantics - but what did they know? With John, everything did. Sherlock could write a research on that.

John resisted the urge to drink some of the water he was holding.

"Okay, Sherlock. But you really should take the pills."

 _Okay?_ That was it?

Defeated, Sherlock took the boring-looking things and shoved them into his mouth. At least John was holding his head while he washed them down with even more boring water.

John let out a sigh of relief and looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"Good. That was easy, wasn't it? Now, listen to me. I do worry about you, you got that right. And yes, it would be easier for me if you didn't shut me down every time, but I guess that's how it works between us. So, you have two options now: either you'll be taking those damn pills whenever I tell you or I will be calling Mycroft. Your choice."

"You would not!"

"Want to try and find out?"

Sherlock wanted to protest, but John's hands on his head were too comfortable to even consider moving. There must have been something wrong with those pills.

"It's not so bad… you worrying about me, I mean. I think I like it."

He hoped John would be relieved to hear that. It was a quite simple deduction, after all. But with John, could he be absolutely sure?

Sherlock sighed. As if those interjections weren't bad enough.

John looked away and licked his lips – small, heartfelt smile on his face.

Sherlock almost allowed himself to relax. Happy John was _Caring John_.

These words felt unusual inside his head. He tried them once again. Feeling. Remembering. Sealing.

It was a good seal. Warm and comforting. With plenty of hot tea and encouraging words.

He peered at it for a few more moments before images in his head started to get blurred.

"Go to sleep now. You're tired."

Sherlock closed his eyes and squeezed John's hand.

The pounding in his head stopped leaving misty numbness.

The images flashed one more time, followed by a calming darkness.

"By the way, Caring John doesn't necessarily mean Happy John. Just so you know."

Sherlock let out a gasp. The hand gently squeezed his shoulder letting him know that everything was fine.

It really _was_ fine.

Even Sherlock could not deny it. Not that he wanted to.


End file.
